


My Voice A Beacon in the Night, My words Will Be Your Light

by AxlotlAtHeart



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally and physically, Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm obsessed with every type of h/c imaginable, Illnesses, Light Angst, Mutual Trust, Past Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Political Alliances, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protect Them Both, Sansa is tough as nails but also a precious little bean, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, Theon cares so much about Sansa it fucking hurts, Theon thinks longingly of Sansa, Time Skips, VERY narration heavy, Weddings, can't you tell?, mentioned character deaths, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 07:36:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18116252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxlotlAtHeart/pseuds/AxlotlAtHeart
Summary: Even when they are miles apart, Theon knows he will come back to Sansa someday.





	My Voice A Beacon in the Night, My words Will Be Your Light

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while; it was originally going to be a follow up to In Winter, but then it turned into something else. So this is what I've been up to instead of working on my multichapter lol. (Which by the way IS going to be updated soon, I'm just slow as fuck)  
> Title is based on a line from "Winter Song" by Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson. Go listen to it, it's the ultimate Theonsa song.

“Stay with me,” Sansa had said to him, moon-pale and wide eyed in the darkness. “Please, stay with me.”

And so he did. He’d crawled under the blankets with her at her request, thinking at every moment that he was doing something obscene, something shameful. They had lain in the dark, with no sound but their own breathing and resilient heartbeats. And his arms had gone round her without a second thought, hoping at the very least to keep her warm. To let her know that he meant more by it, that his comfort could be there for her if she wished even if it was hard to form this invitation into words

Though his body was thin, and tired, and broken, she had curled against it like a small child.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He had wanted to stay awake by her side, making certain no harm came to her, that if she needed him he would be there. But the warmth of her, the feeling of someone breathing next to him, had been as comforting to him as it had been to her, and he fell asleep even before she did.

He tries not to think about it afterwards. Tries not to remember that night, or the next morning in the slow moments between sleep and waking, when it was just good and warm and they lay still with their arms around each other. For a few blessed moments, it had felt almost normal, as if there was nothing wrong about it. But of course there was. She’s the Lady of Winterfell, if she is seen with anyone – like that – people will talk. Especially if that person is him. Even though there’s nothing, they haven’t done anything (the very idea of that is uncomfortable) there’s no telling what others might think.

He avoids the suspicious and judging eyes that meet him throughout the halls of Winterfell, he avoids certain rooms, and he avoids the Starks as much as he can.

Eventually he will have to face her, or all of them, again, he knows that. But their faces haunt him and he cannot bring himself to be the one to speak first. Perhaps, after everything, he is in fact a coward.

It happens only once more, long after he has stopped thinking about the first time.

In the dead of night, when the nightmares wake him instead of her, and he lies shaking in his bed trying to block out each and every sense for fear that they will cause him more pain, he prays to every god he knows that he woke no one, that no one will come.

But someone does come. It’s her, of course. She does not say a word as she puts her candle by his bed to fill the room with a bit of light. Though his back is turned he can see the feathery glow of it on the wall. And he wants her to go back to bed, to forget him, to leave him with his own black thoughts because it’s all that he deserves…but after several minutes she still has not left and in time he feels a hand on his shoulder.

He jumps at her touch, he can’t help it. It should not be there, not with him. But it stays and then moves to his head, her hand in his hair, brushing it back with a gentleness he did not know even she possessed.

He knows what will come next. And though every fiber of his body tells him to prevent it from happening, that it’s wrong, he does not stop her when she climbs in bed beside him.He does not turn to her, and she does not turn to him. But he can feel the warmth of her, even as he shuts his eyes to the flicker of the candle, he knows her to be there still. Her hand finds his shoulder again, warm and steady, and it stays there through the night.

She does not come to his room again after that, and she does not ask him to come to hers. But there are other things…other times when they find themselves alone together and are forced face to face with each other’s pain. Sometimes they speak, about things both banal and serious, other times they just sit in silence, accepting the presence of one another.

Once, after a feast, he catches her slipping outside to the cold alone.

He follows, of course. It’s instinctive, and he does it without thinking twice. But once he reaches the obscure side door she left from, he wonders if he should not, that she wants to be alone, that if she wanted him she would ask. But he follows anyway, because even though she’s at home with her family, and armed guards stand at every wall, he can’t help thinking something terrible will happen, that she will be taken away and it will be all his fault. He has to protect her, no matter the cost. He decided that a long time ago.

She’s there, sitting on a step to the courtyard, dusted with a winter snow. More is falling now, silently blowing in drifts around the yard, flakes of it invisible until they catch and melt in the torchlight

She does not speak to him as he quietly approaches her, but he’s sure she hears him. She does not seem at all surprised when he sits down on the step beside her.

For a while they sit together silently, listening to the whisper of the wind. Theon has not yet found it in himself to accept a proper Northern fur cape from them, so he wears only the thin cloak he got from his own home. It isn’t as warm or thick as Sansa’s and it’s not long before he finds himself shivering in the cold.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” she says without looking at him, “You’ll catch your death in this cold.”

“If I go back in, will you come with me?”

She looks at him then, her eyes like little bits of the sky. And in a moment he can see it written all over her face; the pain and hurt and loneliness that must be buried deep underneath all the beauty and courage. She is like a tall sentinel tree, stern and strong, but with roots that the winters have frozen, sap turned to ice. It’s not something that everyone can see.

“I shouldn’t have come out at all,” she says, “I know I shouldn’t have. It’s not fair to them. But I just get so…so overwhelmed, sometimes. Like the world gets smaller, too tight a space to breathe. Do you understand?”

She does not need to ask him to know that he does. She knows there are days he can hardly even bring himself to leave his chamber, when the world seems far too big and cold and cruel for him to possibly live another day in it. That there are days he wishes he could wither away, crumble into himself and blow away on the north wind like dust, or sand, or a snowdrift. And there are days she feels all this too.

But just as she knows he feels everything she feels, she also knows he cannot take away her pain. Not completely, just as she cannot take away his. It’s still better, though, to at least know he understands. To be with someone who completely understands and knows her needs. That in itself takes the edge off, at the very least.

Theon knows this too. He knows what she feels, because she is more open about it than he is. And he wishes that he could take it all away, bring all of her hurt onto him if he could. He had borne his own wounds for years and lived still, bearing a few more would do little harm. But he can’t. He can be there, and try, but he cannot make her well. He knows, though, that if they ever do get better, if either of them can ever go back to being somewhat similar to what they were before, they will do it together. He will stay by her side and hope he lives to see her laugh again. It’s all he can do.

So he does not need to say he understands, he only takes her hand in his, feeling its warmth even through both their gloves. They don’t need to speak at all, they only sit hand in hand watching the whispering snow.

“Let me see your hands,” Sansa says, so quietly he almost does not hear. “If you want to…if you’d let me…”

In another time, an earlier time, perhaps he would have refused. Perhaps a horrible fear would have held him far too tightly to even consider the deed. But there is nothing to fear from her. A few scars will change little between them.

He removes both his gloves. It has been a long time since he looked at his own hands; he often tries not to. But now they stand out white in the dimness, and she takes them in her own. Her fingers run themselves over the fine white scars and patches of discolored skin, and finally the stump where his missing finger had once been. He can’t help flinching when she gets there, but leaves his hands where they are. A part of him still thinks she will be disgusted by him, with all of his scars and deformities. He thinks she ought to be, but even if she is her nature is too kind to say so.

“Do they hurt?”

Theon is surprised by the question; he isn’t used to concern about his pain.

“Sometimes,” he admits, “Often when I’m remembering…things.”

Her expression is not pitying. Instead there is anger there, anger it takes a moment for him to realize is not directed at him, but rather at those who have hurt him. Once he recognizes that, he is far more touched than he would be by any pitying look.

To his further surprise, she takes both his hands and presses her lips to them. It’s not something he would expect anyone to do, even her. Her kiss is brief, but its sweet and warm, and for the first time Theon wonders what it might be like to have her lips against his. But he dashes the thought away as quickly as it comes, attributing it to the wine he’s drunk, or his damaged mind he’s not sure even he knows anymore. It’s not something that should be thought about her, not after all that she’s been through, and certainly not by him. But he convinces himself it means nothing, and allows her to lay her head against his shoulder. She’s warm, and her hair is soft. With her there, it’s all he can do not to kiss her back. But he stifles the frightening urge.

Their respite from the approaching war is briefer than any of them hoped.  
Soon the dead army reaches them, and everything is once again torn apart. They fight together; Northmen, Unsullied, Ironborn, even some Lannister men. Houses no longer matter, old alliances and feuds and betrayals lose all significance when the living fight against the dead. The days are cold, the nights colder, and the battles are long and fierce.

Many die. From soldiers whose names very few know to the wealthiest of lords. Even kings and queens. Daenerys Targaryen flies into her last battle on the back of a dragon, and remains there even as the beast is speared to the ground. She gives her life to help end the war.

Theon is not sure how to feel. She was his ally, a friend to his sister, and he is sure he should weep for her death, but he does not. He is not sure why; it may be that he is too numb to feel anything, or it may be that he simply knew her so little, and there are others that knew her better and loved her better, and they deserve to grieve her more than he does.

The Night King is killed quicker than they thought he could be. The dead die again, and the battle is won. Jon Snow is the one to do it, and he dies doing it. It’s a blow far greater than anyone expected. His loss is one Theon mourns for, privately, on his own. More for what could have been between them, for the chance they did not get to truly reconcile with each other. He thinks they could have been friends, that they ought to have been friends had he lived. He is laid in the crypts beside his mother, and the man who was more a father to him than anyone else ever was. Theon visits both Jon’s tomb and Ned’s when nobody is watching. It takes him a long time to work up the courage to visit Robb’s as well.

After the war, after Jon is killed, he does not see Sansa as much. She stays with her family, with the sister and brother that remain. Theon understands, she needs to grieve with them, she needs them more than him. But he makes sure to be within sight if she decides she wants him there.

There are a few times when she comes to him. He holds her in as comforting a manner as he can, letting her weep, or hold him back, or simply rest her head on his shoulder. He wants to do more for her, to take away the sorrow she feels, but he cannot bring her brother back. He cannot change the past, as much as the idea haunts him. So he does what he can for the future.

He writes to his own sister as soon as he can. Now that the dead are gone, she will want him to come home. He has done his duty, she will say, and doesn’t need to bother with the North anymore. But though the war has ended, winter is still here. Travelling will be hard, especially with the small band of still living Ironborn he will take with him. And his heart is torn; he cannot spend the rest of the winter, no matter how long it lasts, away from Yara. He can hardly bear the thought of leaving her alone on the islands, in the middle of the vast freezing sea. But leaving Sansa now would be equally as hard.

It seems like he will have to leave soon. He isn’t needed anymore up here, he no longer has any excuse to stay. But then again, having an excuse to go to his sister would be welcome, the decision made for him. He hasn’t brought it up to Sansa yet, fearing she will try to tell him to stay and make it even worse. He plans on it though, soon he will need to tell her that his time is done. It will be hard, but he tries to work up the courage to do it and leave whatever happens next to fate. But to Theon, fate has never been kind.

He falls ill. Not badly at first, just a tenderness in his throat and back of his head, a slight chill. Not enough to make him worry. So he ignores it, and tells no one.

A day and a night pass without anything seeming to get worse, but when he wakes the next morning it’s clear that he’s far sicker than he’d realized. He’s freezing cold, a cold that seems to come from inside him rather than from out, and his head swims when he tries to lift it. All he wants, all he can think to do, is to go back to sleep, to wrap up in the warm furs and blankets and wait for it all to pass. But he owes the northerners, at the very least to eat with them and attend council with their leaders. Sansa leads them now, and he owes her, still he owes her…

So he forces himself very slowly into a sitting position and out of bed. Even that is difficult, the ground beneath him rocks wildly and his aching muscles protest even the smallest movement. But he does it, and afterwards sits shivering, trying to clear his head. He manages a few sips of water, but it only burns against his throat. He gets dressed slowly, pausing every few moments to wait out another wave of dizziness. Even his cloak cannot keep him from shivering.

He doesn’t remember how he got from his room to the great hall, but somehow he ends up there and for a long moment stands in the doorway just trying to think clearly. He’s lightheaded, and there’s a deep ache in his bones that makes him feel like he might collapse any second. But he forces himself onward, staggering into a seat alongside men he does not recognize, and does not care to try and identify. Soon, though, he can hardly even bear to hold his head up. He feels like he’s falling, no matter which way he sits the world spins sickeningly around him. There are plenty of people in the hall still that will see him leave, but he doesn’t think of them. He doesn’t even think of Sansa. It’s all he can do not to faint as he shuffles away from the hall again.

His journey back to his room seems impossibly long, as if Winterfell is a maze to which there is no entrance, and no visible way out. But eventually, after what feels like days of struggle, he finds his room. He only remembers to kick off his boots at the last minute, and then he climbs fully dressed into bed, wrapping his cloak and the blankets around him in a desperate attempt to stop shivering. A part of his mind drifts again to Sansa, hoping she won’t be angry with him for his weakness, but sleep takes him before he can finish the thought. He wakes sometime later in the middle of a fit of coughing. When it finishes and he lies weak and breathless, he becomes aware of the heat; an oppressive, persistent warmth covering him from head to foot. His skin feels uncomfortably damp under the many layers. Vaguely he notices that the room is pitch dark, the world outside the windows even darker. It’s been hours, and no one has come for him. Good.

The covers are wrapped so tightly around him that they’re almost binding; he panics for a moment in the dark thinking he must be tied down, in a dungeon or someplace even worse. Slowly, because his aching limbs don’t want to respond properly, he peels away the layers until it’s just him in his clothes. He tries to undo the cloak too, but his fingers are clumsy and uncooperative in the dark, so he leaves it. Then he lies there, hurting and covered in sweat. He starts coughing again, until his chest aches as if it will split in two. The only thought that manages to form completely in the fog of his mind is that if he sleeps, he will feel better. All he needs is a night’s rest, in the morning this will all feel like no more than a bad dream.

Real dreams swim around his brain for the long hours after that. They make little sense, but are disturbed and restless, full not of voices and faces but of feelings he can’t explain. He feels as if he’s done something terribly wrong, he’s made a mistake, and the closer he gets to figuring out what it is, the further it slides away.

When he wakes again, it’s because of a voice calling his name, dragging him up from the dark depths of wherever he’s been trapped. At first he thinks it must be a voice in his dreams because it’s so far away, like he’s underwater and it comes from a far off shore, and he doesn’t have the strength to pull himself out to meet it. He’d rather swim where he is, in the foggy haze. “Theon?”

He knows that voice. Knows it but can’t place it, and associates it with such a muddle of things...tears and grief and dark places, but somehow comfort as well, and warmth. Someone…someone he knows…his thoughts swirl in the darkness, he’s too tired to pull himself towards the light…

“Theon, can you hear me?”

It’s closer now, sounding urgent and worried. She shouldn’t be worried, it hurts to have her worry

He tries to say something back, anything, but it comes out as a weak groan. Slowly, painfully, his eyelids drag open.

Everything is blurred. And bright, so bright it hurts his eyes. That voice is saying something again, something he can’t hear quite right, but he can’t find her. He glances around as much as he can with his sore eyes, and then she’s right above him. It’s the blue eyes he sees first, blue like the sky…

“Sansa,” he croaks. “Why are…what are you…”

“Don’t talk,” she says, “What happened to you?”

“I don’t…I don’t know…why are you here? Did I do something?” It’s the only thing he can think of; that he’s done something wrong, like in his dreams. She’s come to tell him he has to leave, or to take him to the dungeons…the sudden fear grips him so hard he feels tears sting his eyes.

Out of nowhere there’s a cool hand on his forehead. It’s strangely pleasant, despite the fact that he’s so cold that he shivers all over.

“I’ll get Maester Wolkan,” he hears her say, “You’re really ill…when did this happen?”

He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know when it happened or what is happening now…he only wants to close his eyes and let the darkness take him again. All he can think is that he’s let her down, yet again…

He lies in a sort of haze as the old maester examines him, gets him to drink water and a bitter medicine. Sansa is there the whole time, it’s her hand that gently gives his shoulder a squeeze and brushes the hair from his eyes as he falls back asleep. For a while the distressing nightmares lessen. Instead he dreams of her.

For four days he’s told to stay in bed, and despite his protests he’s so weak there isn’t much he can do but try and sleep. Sansa sits with him whenever she can, soothing him out of the awful dreams the fever brings him, trying to keep him as comfortable as is possible. He doesn’t want her to stay, because she shouldn’t, because it isn’t right for her to help him. It isn’t right for her to stay by his side even when he’s so useless. And she shouldn’t have to help him, not so soon after her own brother has died. She ought to take care of herself instead.

But she stays. And she’s kind, and gentle, so much more than he would have wanted, so much that he isn’t used to it, he can hardly remember what it felt like to be treated so warmly and kindly. There’s a moment, in the depths of one of his rougher nights, when he’s barely awake but can hear her talking softly to him, her voice fading in and out. He can tell she doesn’t think he can hear her.

“Please don’t die,” she says, her voice close to breaking, “Not you too. Not now.” And he knows she’s thinking of Jon, and of Robb, and Rickon and her parents. Some part of him understands, then, what it means to her to have him. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand why, but if it matters to her he will live. It’s the very least he can do.

Even as he begins to recover, she comes to see him whenever she is able. They talk sometimes, when he is well enough. He’s less ashamed, though very slightly, when he finds he isn’t the only one who has been ill. Whatever the sickness is, it’s spread like wildfire through the castle. It’s not as bad as it would be if he was the only one. Perhaps he is not quite as weak as he thought.

A few days pass and while he’s still tired, with a lingering cough, he is well enough to travel. It is both a blessing and a curse.

It snows heavily the day he leaves. It comes down softly, consistently, bundling itself into drifts. Theon speaks with as little emotion as he can manage, but cannot help the shades of it that creep into his voice as he says his goodbyes. When Sansa gives him a final, fleeting hug he finds it nearly impossible to keep the tears from his eyes. The sudden realization, and then horrible fear, comes to him that this could be that last time he ever sees her. He fears her death far more than his own, and his own is darkened not by a fear of dying but of knowing he cannot protect her from beyond the grave.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” she whispers into his shoulder as she holds him, “Promise me.”

It’s an impossible promise to make, and completely out of his control to keep. They both know it. But he makes it anyway.

It is the end of the second year of winter.

The journey back to the islands is long, and cold, but somehow he and his company survive the passage back. And for a good portion of the trip, though he knows he should have other things on his mind, Theon spends his time looking eastward out the back of the ship and thinking about Sansa; wondering where she is now, what she herself is thinking about. Her memory ties him back to the shore no matter how far away they sail, grounding him like tree roots. And with the memory is his promise, always lingering.

When he reaches the dark stone walls of his old home, his sister greets him with her usual stern look. But then she hugs him as well, something he would never expected from her. They stay up talking late into the night over cups of wine, recalling all that has happened in the time that has passed. There is an unspoken tautness in every sentence, every pregnant pause, that neither of them acknowledge. Between them lies a world of difference, miles of despair and heartbreak that neither one can understand from the other and perhaps never will. So they do what they can to rebuild what is left instead.

It takes Theon a long time to sleep that night. He lies awake for hours, listening to the icy rain lashing against the windows and wondering what exactly it is he feels. He is home, and loved, for the first time all at once. It is not something that is familiar.

By the time the moon turns, the rain turns to snow. Theon has never seen it here before, though Yara recalls a distant memory of it in the last days of the previous winter, when she was barely old enough to remember. He stands by his window and watches it pile in drifts against the castle walls. It isn’t long before the water begins to freeze.

In the third year, the ice between the islands and the shore is dense enough for them to walk on. Many of the less-proud islanders do, finding shelter and food on the mainland where it’s easier to come by. Theon and Yara stay behind, along with a good number more, but every few weeks one of them goes to shore to get resources from some of the northmen. It’s something they and the Starks agreed on; without raiding the there isn’t much they can do in the way of food, so the northerners have agreed to trade, or sometimes simply give them what they need in the harder times when there is nothing to give back.

Theon finds these trips to the mainland strange. The sea is not something that is meant to be walked upon, it looks more like a frozen wasteland than what used to be miles of water. It’s always an eerie sight, walking past peaks of waves stuck in a moment of crashing and ships frozen solid against the docks. And the islands themselves; heaps of rock and ice now barely distinguishable at a distance from the rest of the landscape.

But these journeys mean seeing Winterfell again. And seeing Sansa. Though she’s often hurried and distracted, it’s comforting at least to see her safe and well.

On the whole, they manage alright. True, there are days when not even the heat of all the fires in the drafty castle can keep out the chill, and there are days when they go without eating more than a scrap of bread each, but they still manage.

By the end of the fourth year, almost all the people of the islands have come to live at Pyke along with the queen and her brother. It’s Theon’s idea; Yara is less certain at first, but she does not take too much convincing. Surprisingly, it’s the common folk that are the ones who are the most unsure about the idea. But it’s better this way, better for them to live all together with the combined resources and warmth. And it’s the kind thing to do.

It all works well until the bridges freeze and, in one case, crumble to the ice below.

They can no longer move, now, from whatever part of the castle they were in. Everyone is forced to stay put until they find some way to repair the damage. It is perhaps the most frightening time of the whole winter, those weeks where everyone in the castle is trapped and food supplies run low as they wait for a miracle. And Theon is in the section the farthest out, with no safe way to contact the rest of them. Those that are closest to the land can leave for the mainland to get help, but he is stranded and useless. All he and his sister can do is watch the snow pile up outside and give as much comfort as they can manage to all those living with them.

And then, when they think it must be the end, that they will spend the rest of their days starving or freezing to death in the most remote parts of the castle, they do get what seems to be a miracle. A slight thaw. Not nearly enough to signal the coming of spring, but for a few days the snow stops and the ice that threatened to crack the bridges melts in a weak sunshine. The one bridge that was broken is not as bad as they had thought, either; several slats are gone and it leans dangerously to one side, but people are able to make it slowly and carefully to the other side. Everyone migrates to the two sections closest to the shore, and the bridge that spans them is reinforced. It’s much more crowded now, but safer as well.

And life goes on. There are hard times, and easier times. There are deaths, but there is life also, life that is shaped by determination and resilience and a staunch will to survive. There are even births, dangerous ones, and more than Theon would have expected there to be in times like these. Through it all, his thoughts often turn back to Winterfell, to the people he left behind. He tries to stay focused on his own people, his own place, but it isn’t always easy. He remembers Jon’s words to him, telling him he can be part of both families without guilt, but doesn’t make it less difficult. He feels as though he’s straddling two different worlds, unsure of which one to give more importance to.

In the fifth year, a fever spreads through the castle. His sister falls sick first, him not long afterwards. This time there is no maester to help them, a limited store of medicine and none of Winterfell’s warmth. He is certain that this time he will not survive. So he stays by Yara instead, more afraid of losing her than the possibility of his own death. Even when he gets so weak he can hardly stand, his head and lungs on fire, he somehow manages to drag himself in to see her, to do what he can for her, until even she tells him to look after himself instead.

“You can’t help me,” she says weakly, “There’s nothing you can do. Don’t make yourself worse.”

She says she’s fine, but he knows she isn’t. He watches her face grow thinner, sits by her through long bouts of delirium. And there is nothing he can do. She is the strongest person he knows, and the most frightening thing in the world is seeing her this weak.

Each day he fears could be her last, or his own. The only thing that keeps him going is raw determination, forcing each step, one after another. It is, perhaps, the most exhausting thing he has ever done, but he cannot leave her. If she dies, the least he can do is not let it be on her own.

But one day he can barely even hold his head upright. So he collapses into his own bed thinking he might at least get some rest, or perhaps he will die, in the cold and panic that has filled his mind for the past few days it all seems the same.

He does not keep track of the number of days and nights he spends scared and in pain. He only remembers forcing himself to drink a couple times, and not knowing whether the faces he sees and voices he hears are real or imagined. And then one morning he wakes to see his sister’s face bent over him, no longer flushed from fever but pale and anxious. He’s only awake for a few moments, enough to mumble her name and feel her cool hand in his hair, but when he falls back asleep it’s with a grain of hope. She is still alive. Perhaps he can make it, too.

Her recovery is quicker than Theon’s, but it isn’t long before he too is well enough to at least leave his room. The sickness has killed one person in the castle; an old woman, but the rest regain their health fully in the span of a couple weeks. Then it is time for them all to struggle forward once again.

Soon their supplies begin to run low once more. They need to go to the mainland to trade again, for the first time in almost a year. Before anyone can stop him, Theon finds himself volunteering. His sister doesn’t like the idea at first, arguing that he’s been ill and needs to regain his strength. But somebody needs to do it, and not many are willing. He sends a raven to Winterfell, and within a week receives a reply. In the night before his departure, he reads over the letter’s brief words – Sansa’s words – again and again until he has them almost memorized, and her name signed at the bottom.

So he leaves, on a cold, clouded morning that threatens snow. Bundled in almost every piece of clothing he owns and carrying on his back a large sack filled with dried fish and heavy cloth, he begins the long journey to the shore. The wind stings his face and he stumbles over the icy, uneven ground. It’s a long time since he has made this trip.

By nightfall he has reached the shore, but he can only tell the difference now between the water and the frozen ground when he begins to see the lights of settlements. He intends to walk on through the night, no matter how tired he gets, but he passes what must be one of the few inns still running in this part of the north and uses what little coin he has to take a bed for the night. He does not ask for food, knowing they likely cannot spare much. They do not know who he is, and they do not ask. Winters like these make some people inclined to help others any way they can, no matter who they are. In the morning, Theon gives them some of the fish.

That day he begins the long trek the rest of the way to Winterfell. The snows pick up again; by the time he reaches the nearest hill it has risen almost to his knees. From here he can see the sturdy grey castle with its round towers, all wreathed in snow. It makes him anxious to be this close; it has been a long time since he looked on it. By the time he reaches the land just beyond the front gates, he’s shaking almost as much from nerves as from cold.

Sansa is standing in the courtyard when he walks through the gates at nightfall. It’s been at least a year since they saw each other last, but she looks the same as she always did. Except that there’s a part of her that looks stronger, sterner, as though her bones were made of steel, and her face has an almost pinched look about it. Nevertheless, she smiles warmly when she sees him.

Theon expects her to want to discuss the trade straight away, but instead she leads him to her own chambers first.

“You look frozen,” she tells him, making him sit in a chair by the fire and taking his wet cloak. “Have you been walking since dawn?”

“Yes,” he answers, “Yesterday’s dawn, that is.” She offers him a cup of hot tea, and he gratefully accepts, watching her closely. Her hair is even brighter in the firelight, her face glowing in the warmth. She is dressed like a queen, in her heavy furs. He thinks she would make a good one, were her people to choose her.

Sansa notices him looking. “What is it?”

He shakes his head, embarrassed. “Nothing. I was just thinking…you’ve grown so much. Changed so much.”

“So have you.”

Theon can’t help copying her small smile. “I hope I have.”

After a while their talk turns to the business at hand; he explains how the islanders have managed to fish in the places further out where the water is deeper, how they can still manage to deliver the dried and salted meat even when half the ocean is an ice field. He’s brought some of their thick, oil coated cloth as well, not much defense against the cold but good for icy rain and sleet. In return he will bring back grain, some warm furs and wool- and medicine, when he tells her about the sickness that swept through not a week earlier. But it’s too much, when she shows him the amounts, for what little he has been able to bring. She insists, though. Her people have much more to spare at the moment than his.

Even after their business discussion, they stay up late into the night talking. They just talk, about anything that comes to mind, even laughing some. It feels good to laugh again. And Theon notices – cannot help but notice – how beautiful she is when she smiles. He tries not to think like that, not knowing where these thoughts are coming from all of a sudden. And the thought he has not had in a very long time; about what it would be like to feel her lips on his, comes back to him. It’s not appropriate, and certainly not honorable, and in truth he does not know where it comes from. But once it comes it plants itself there and lingers in the very back of his thoughts, no matter how hard he tries to forget it.

There is some awkwardness that night, when he leaves to go to his own room. Awkwardness because by the way she’s looking at him it almost seems as though she wishes he would stay. But he can’t. She knows he can’t, and wouldn’t ask. Even so, later that night, long after the candle in his room has burnt out, he finds his thoughts drifting back to her.

His few days at Winterfell pass quietly and often in solitude. There are times when he speaks to Sansa, but she is often busy and he has no wish to disturb her. Instead he wanders the halls of the castle, and the grounds when he can, going over in his mind each and every thing he remembers about this place, about its people. From all the times that he was here in different guises; a hostage, a conqueror, a slave, and now – what? Perhaps a guest? It is a strange thing to think, that after all the things this castle has been to him over the years, now it can simply be the home of a good friend in which he is allowed to live peacefully.

The night before he leaves, Sansa finds him standing on the battlements. He does not realize it at first, but once she’s there next to him he remembers that it’s the same place they jumped together, all those years ago. She comes closer to him, the heavy fabric of her cloak whispering along the ground.

“I suppose it’s time to say farewell again.”

“I suppose it is.”

Strangely, the look she gives him is not a sad one. “We’ll see each other again,” she says, “We always do. The end of winter can’t be that far away.”

That last part is just optimism, they both know. There is no way to tell how long the cold will last.

A thought comes to him, born out of nothing in particular but very strong, and very sure.

“When spring comes,” he says, “You should come and visit. Come to the islands. If you can, that is, I’m sure you’ll be quite busy. But I…would like to see you.”

She nods, “I’d like to see you too. You should know…you’ll be welcome here any time, as my guest. All you’d need to do is write; there will always be a place for you at Winterfell.”

To Theon’s horror, he begins to feel his throat growing tight. He looks away from her, hastily blinking away the sudden tears that threaten to fall. It’s just that it’s so kind of her – too kind. True, he has offered her the same thing, but it feels different coming from her to him. Even after all these years, still he feels he does not deserve a friend like her.

“That’s very generous of you,” he says once he has composed himself, “But I wouldn’t dream of intruding on you…”

“You wouldn’t be intruding. It’s like I said, you’d be our guest.”

“I’d be glad of that.”

She smiles at him, but there’s something about it that’s different, as though something is lurking behind the smile. He hopes it isn’t based on something he has said.

They are quiet for a while; by now they know each other well enough to be comfortable just standing side by side with no intention of talking. Theon realizes then that he feels no awkwardness with her. Thinking back, it becomes clear he never really has. There is a level of comfortableness between the two of them that he feels with no one else, except perhaps his sister.

“Our trading has been going well so far, don’t you think?”

“We haven’t tried to go to war with each other yet, so I suppose it’s well enough.” he says, “ It’s a shame you can’t really make use of our ships at the moment. We’d be glad to offer them to the North.”

By ‘we’, he mostly refers to himself, and perhaps Yara. There is no telling what the other islanders would think of the arrangement.

“Yes,” Sansa, for some reason, sounds a little nervous. Theon can see her twisting her hands the way she does when she’s on edge. “I should think the arrangement ought to continue, even once the winter passes. It would help to have a proper alliance with your people, it would help both of us.”

“It would.” The northerners would benefit from having warriors like the Ironborn on their side, as well as the ships. And while raiding the mainland had been already forbidden, there would be no need for it if a trade could continue. “Though I’m not sure what they would say to it. Or that the northmen would like it very much.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t. But if this winter has taught us anything, it’s that we’re stronger together than against each other. We know that, the others can learn to accept it as well.”

Once again, he cannot help admiring her faith in people.

“It will be difficult to make them agree,” he says, “Because of…all our history.” He does not want to think about it; about his own treason that had shattered the already delicate peace that might have lain between their two families.

“It will be. But…there could be a way. Mind you, I doubt it would be very well received either, but nobody could question our alliance…”

She is fidgeting again. Her clear apprehensiveness spreads a little to Theon even though he doesn’t understand exactly what she is suggesting.

“What would that be?” he asks, a little uncertainly.

She turns to face him, looking almost desperate. “It doesn’t have to happen. Only if you want. It’s just something I’ve had on my mind for a while…”

“Sansa…what is it you’re suggesting?”

“I could marry you.”

No. That was not what he expected at all.

It’s shock, mostly, that prompts him to say the first thing he thinks of. “You aren’t serious.”

Her smile is a little sad, as though she knew his reaction was coming. “I am. I knew you might be opposed to it…I just thought we could think about it, there’s a chance it would be a good idea.”

Theon’s mind has gone blank. Nothing could have prepared him for this; how in the world is he supposed to respond? She doesn’t truly mean it – she can’t mean it – not with everything that’s happened, it isn’t right…

“Sansa…why?”

“I’ve told you why. It’s a way to secure an alliance; the best way, as I’ve figured out over the years. If I marry into your family, it’ll be a lot harder for us to go back to being enemies, won’t it?”

“I…I suppose…” The logic to it makes sense; it’s everything else about it that’s wrong.

“I mentioned it to Jon before…before he died,” her voice shakes a little as it often does when she mentions her brother, “He didn’t like it much, but he thought there was some sense to it in the end.” She looks at him seriously. “You don’t have to decide now. You can think about it. I’ve had a lot of time to think, you deserve that as well.”

“It’s just that…you deserve better. There must be dozens of young men in the north who would gladly accept your hand, why not one of them? They have families worth allying with as well.”

“But I’ve chosen you. It’s not about what you or anyone else think I deserve.” She takes a deep breath, looking him straight in the eye, “All my life people have been choosing paths for me. My marriages have been only so that others could benefit. This time I’m choosing for myself. And even if there wasn’t a benefit of an alliance…I still might have chosen you.”

“But why?” he says rather desperately, “As a child you…you always wanted some brave knight to sweep you off your feet, to take you away and give you the perfect life. You never got that, but you can still have it. I’m…I’m nothing, compared to that.”

“You’re not nothing,” she says quietly, “You’re a lot more than nothing.”

Sansa sighs, looking back out over the parapet. In her eyes are memories of times past, and people. Her voice wavers a little as she speaks.

“When I was thirteen, I thought I loved a boy named Joffrey Baratheon.” She gives him a wry smile, her voice bitter, “I’m sure you remember that. I thought all the time about how handsome he was, how I would marry him and be a beautiful queen and have his children, I couldn’t walk past him without feeling all embarrassed and clumsy. I don’t know…I don’t know if that was love. I don’t know if I’ve ever really been in love. All I know is that when I’m with you, Theon, I feel safe. I have always felt safe.”

Safe. That is not something she would lie about, especially when safety has come so rarely to her. He himself almost had forgotten what it felt like to be safe. He feels it now, though. Now, with her standing so close beside him on the parapet, a spot of warmth and light in the cold dark of winter. But at least she can put into words how she feels about him; his opinions of her impossible to describe.

She’s looking back at him now, nervously. She has spoken truths from deep in her heart, and he has done nothing in return but deny them. It’s only fair then, as frightening as the idea is, for him to do the same.

“I feel the same,” he says, “That – that safety. I think you understand me, like I understand you. And I want nothing more than to keep you safe, when I’m with you. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be whole.”

He forces himself to look at her. “I don’t know if I can give you that. I don’t believe that I can – but I think you believe it. If… if it will make you happy, I will do it.”

"And will it make you happy?”

Would it? If, somehow, he was able to forget how much he did not deserve her; if he could forget the talk that would inevitably come up about her and him, and the way his people would still look at hers, if he could forget all the bad things could it be possible that they would have a life with each other as normal and loving as they could make it? He thinks about how she makes him feel. All the mutual understandings that have come between them over the past years, all the care he has felt for her and he now knows she has felt for him despite the fact that they have been so apart. He is happier, just by being near her.

“I think it will.”

She gives him a smile; a small, rather tentative one, but it lights up her face all the same. It’s been difficult, the past few times he’s seen her, to ignore the fact of her beauty. Now perhaps he will not have to.

“I’m glad I have you,” she says, “After everyone I’ve lost…I’m glad I didn’t lose you too.”

“You’ll never lose me,” he replies, more fiercely than he’d intended, “Not if I can help it. I’ll be here for you, no matter what happens.”

“I know you will.”

 

They decide to wait. To not announce it right away. Theon still goes back home, but they keep in correspondence more frequently than they had before. It’s too risky, they both think, to marry now and try to make a means for the alliance if they don’t even know whether or not they will live until spring.

He thinks it will be difficult to speak to his sister about their plan, but it proves less dramatic than he’d imagined. He tells her straight, as soon as he can once he’s home.

“When is this happening?” she asks him, her face fixed in her usual frown but beyond that betraying nothing.

“Once the winter is over. We’re not sure, exactly…there’s a lot we’re still thinking about.”

“Where?”

Theon swallows. He hasn’t thought about where, and nor has she, he suspects. “I…I was thinking in the north. With her people.”

She looks at him, long and hard. “Are you sure about this?”

This time, he knows how to answer.

“Yes.”

 

It is another four years before winter is truly over. Nine years the world has spent in fear and darkness; not as long as some were predicting, but certainly a long time for those that survive it. For those, it seems as though it has lasted a lifetime. But in time the snows melt, the days grow longer and the winds warmer. Once again, the world has found some way to carry on.

Theon rides north again on a day when the sun gives only a watery light from beyond a thin, ice – coloured cloud. It’s still the most sunlight the north has seen in a long while. He remembers coming through this way long ago, though then it was little more than a frozen wasteland, when he last came to trade at Winterfell. When he last saw Sansa.

Now the smallest of green shoots are forcing their way up through half frozen ground, the snow around them slowly but steadily slipping away. The land looks almost the same as it did when he first came north, as a child. Yet another age is beginning.

She’s there at the gates when he arrives. For the first time, he sees her and feels no anxiety, no guilt, no question as to whether or not he is good enough for her. They have made the decision to carry one another forward, and it is one they have made together.

They begin planning the wedding soon after he arrives. It will be small, and very quiet, both of them think that would be best. Sansa’s sister and brother will be there, and Yara arrives as well, somewhat unexpectedly. Arya looks suspiciously at him, (and Yara at her) but he has a feeling Sansa has told her not to say anything. There is no way very many northerners will approve of their marriage, she warned him of that. But they respect her; it’s him that would likely bear the most slander. And yet he has come anyway. It has been a long time since words did him any damage.

“You’re a lucky man,” Yara says when she sees Sansa for the first time. Theon cannot help but agree; he is more than lucky to have somebody like her.

 

She wears grey, the day of their wedding. It’s a soft grey, though, not severe like the way she dressed throughout the winter. With her hair loose and the furs around her shoulders, she looks the most beautiful as he has ever seen her. Her sister walks beside her, throwing a rather threatening glance in Theon’s direction. It doesn’t bother him. What bothers him more is knowing they are in the Godswood again; and even though it’s springtime and the wood washed with daylight, the memories of the last wedding this place saw still haunt him. He cannot imagine what they might be doing to her.

But she’s smiling, when she reaches him. Rather nervously, it is true, but behind it is a promise: We will carry each other.

It’s stronger than any vow the maester has her say.

As they do say their vows, Theon remembers his own from all those years ago; the one that called to him over miles of frozen sea, like a beacon in the darkest depths of winter nights. He promised to come back to her, and he has.

That night they say very little to each other in the darkness of their room. There is no fear between them, no guilt, no regret. It’s only when they dress for bed that Sansa’s fingers begin to shake, fumbling on the clasps of her dress so much that she guides his hands and allows him to undo them for her. It’s all Theon needs to know she truly trusts him.

He takes her fingers in his own after that, telling her he will turn away, that he would never and will never look at her body unless it’s what she wants. But she tells him to. She’s frightened and he hates himself for it, but she wants him to see her, so he does. Then, because it’s only fair, he allows her to look at him just the same. They stand together for a moment, seeing the truth of each other’s scars and knowing for certain, in that small space of time, that no more will come as long as they have each other.

Their first night together is not uncomfortable. It is not the first time, after all, that they have come to each other’s beds and lain silently together for comfort in the night. This night is no different. Some time in the night, her hands find his own and they lie like that for the rest of the night. Just as close as they need to be.

 

In time, they will learn more about each other. All the things they never had time to say, or felt too much guilt for. All the confessions and apologies and truths they have never before shared with anyone else, eventually they feel free to share with each other. Tentative touches grow more frequent and less shy. Spring turns to another summer, and in a long time the cold winds will begin to rise once again. Through the next winter, and any more that come after that in their lifetimes, he will have her to lean on, and she him. They have drawn each other back home, bound by promises and regrets and hope. They have survived.  
Now all there is left to do is live.


End file.
